The Stew of Wrath
by IncarnadineSeas
Summary: Disciple, in all his gallantry, attempts to impress the crew of the Ebon Hawk. Of course - and in no small part thanks to Atton - it ends in disaster.


_Hmm… so this crystal is bonded to me. Interesting._

I turn the softly glowing shard of rock over in my hand as I make my way towards the garage, intent on fitting it into my newly minted lightsaber. However, halfway down the corridor I encounter a heavy, savoury smell from somewhere in the main hold which abruptly convinces me that another course of action is more appropriate. Slipping the crystal into my pocket, I wander into the hold, searching for its source. I find Mical in the storage room. He's got his back to me and all manner of culinary equipment scattered around him on the counters that, apparently, come out of the walls. At the back of the room there is a stovetop, with a steaming pot on one element and a frying pan on the other. As I draw nearer, I see him slicing slivers off of a long, inexplicably branched piece of what I assume is meat, and dropping them into the pan, where they turn from a pale rubbery pink to a dark brown almost immediately.

I lean against the entryway, watching him. "I didn't know this ship had a full galley." He starts at the sound of my voice, but smiles as he turns to face me.

"That much is evident, seeing as you were using it to store broken droids," he tosses his head in the direction of the rightmost corner, where the HK unit has been unceremoniously shoved to accommodate his cooking.

"Well, I'm glad that it's finally being put to good use." I close my eyes and inhale appreciatively "It smells wonderful. What exactly…?"

He anticipates the rest of my question. "Ah," he begins, gesturing toward the stovetop, "This is iriaz stew. One of the local delicacies at Khoonda. It's delicious, and really quite easy to make - although, I've had to make a few alterations, given the circumstances. Regardless I'm sure you'll take a liking to it."

"Local delicacy, huh? Interesting," I reply enthusiastically enough – although my gaze wanders over his shoulder to the simmering pot of broth behind him. I eye it greedily; unable to recall the last time I ate something that wasn't synthesized mush. "Anything I can do to help?"

"No, I'm nearly finished here – I ah… was hoping to surprise you all, truthfully," he mumbles, and his eyes look down before darting up to meet mine.

I shrug. "It'll taste good whether we were expecting it or not. Besides," I add with a wink, "I'm sure you're full of surprises. Now, should I get the others?" He smiles weakly before clearing his throat.

"Yes. I would appreciate that very much. Ah…In all honesty, I wasn't looking forward to chatting with that Rand fellow. Not to mention trying to get him to taste my cooking. I mean, really, he can't stand the sight of me." He sounds genuinely put out by this, which comes as a surprise.

"Hey, don't worry about Atton. He's just slightly…" How could I phrase this diplomatically? "well, he's Atton. He and I met under considerably different circumstances, but I can tell you that he's hardly the master of first impressions." I smile, a little ruefully, and then quickly change tacks. "Besides, not even he could resist this, especially after living off the synthesizer these past few days."

"So all I have to do is best the synthesizer?"

"You think you're up to it?"

"Oh, most definitely."

"Excellent. I'll call the others."

He turns his back to me and begins to spoon the stew into little white bowls. I head off to the cockpit first, seeing as it's closest. When I open the door, I see Atton in the pilot's chair, as always, his legs sloped carelessly over the control panel. He swivels around when he hears me enter.

"Change your mind about the paz- oh! Hey, am I smelling actual food out there or is that just some sort of hallucination brought on by the synthesizer kark we've been eating?" Evidently, the rush of air from the door has brought the smell of stew with it.

"No. That's real food all right."

He inhales deeply, a smile crossing his face. "Well, what've you been waiting for? One of us to keel over from food poisoning? If you can cook like that –"

"Actually, that's not mine."

"Don't tell me Bao-Dur…?"

"Nope."

"Uh…Kreia?"

"No, Atton. It's Mical! Mical made supper for us." I almost laugh at his expression. Sweet to bitter in less than a second.

"Oh. Well isn't that just fan-fracking-tastic."

I sigh resignedly. "Come on. Not two seconds ago you were practically salivating…Or was that just because I walked in?" Force, it's all I can do not to clamp my hand over my mouth. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why do I encourage him?

His eyes start to glitter, and not with an entirely teasing light. "Heh. Heh. Well you've got me there–"

"Forget it, Atton. Look, it'd hardly kill you to eat actual food for once, and it smells delicious." His smirk fades and he starts randomly mashing control panel buttons.

"Laying it on a bit thick, isn't he?"

"He's trying to be nice. You know, "make a gesture" or something like that."

"Well, I've got a gesture for him."

I cross my arms, more than a little miffed about his hostility towards our newest crew member. "I'll bet you do – and unless it involves perfect table manners and an incredibly cordial thanks to Mical, I don't want to see it."

Admirably, he holds back on the eye-rolling. "Since when am I cordial, your majesty?"

My lips twitch. "You Alderaanians are famous for your… refinement. About time to make good on that reputation, don't you think?" I don't wait for an answer and turn to leave for the main hold. Stopping in the doorway, I add, "Now come and eat your kriffing stew."

He rolls to his feet, following sulkily. "So much for refinement."

Bao-Dur's already in the hold when we get there, which both saves me the trip to the garage and ensures that Atton isn't left alone with Mical. (Not that it would do much harm, strictly speaking – but I can't see reaping any benefits from it, either.) He's draped over one of the benches that've been sidled up next to a small, rather dusty looking table. His gaze settles on me.

"Hello, General. I heard you yelling at Atton about dinner. Figured I was invited too."

"You are; everyone is – although come to think of it I've never actually seen Kreia eat. And Visas really shouldn't leave the med bay yet–"

Atton can't help but roll his eyes this time. "Only you would invite an assassin to dinner."

I spin around, feigning indignation. "You're so insensitive, Atton. Assassins need to eat too. Ooh, speaking of eating…" I trail off when I see Mical making his way toward us carrying a tray with four steaming bowls. He looks around the table before speaking.

"I take it Kreia and the Miraluka…"

"Visas," I offer.

"Visas – won't be joining us, then?" He looks to me for confirmation; as though I'm suddenly an expert on the two women's eating habits. I smile. One of the many things I seem to be an authority on, in his eyes at least.

"No, no. I'll bring some to them later."

"Very well. Shall we?" He proceeds to hand out the bowls. "I do hope you all enjoy it. A slightly modified iriaz stew; local delicacy at Khoonda and a personal favourite of mine." Bao-Dur nods pleasantly, Atton grunts. He gets his first, and – inexplicable grudge notwithstanding – digs right in. After the first few bites he stops, his eyes narrowing with what could only be recognition. He chews thoughtfully, glancing from Bao-Dur to Mical, then back again. They're chatting, and don't notice him. He swallows almost… decisively. A wicked sort of glee flashes in his eyes, and he can't help the smirk that crosses his face. When he sees me watching, he winks and gives me an all-too-innocent smile.

"This is some stew, huh?"

My eyes narrow in turn. "It…sure is, Atton. Never had iriaz done so well."

"Just you wait, sister. It gets way better."

I puzzle over his remark while he sits across from me, eating stew like a self-contented maalraa. After a few minutes he pipes up, though this time his target is Mical.

"So kid, tell me. How many places you rob to get all this?"

Mical stiffens; distrust clouding his normally open countenance. Maybe he'd noticed Atton's expression after all. "Not all of us will resort to thievery to get what we want, Atton."

"I don't know if I like what you're implying, kid –"

"Hey, c'mon boys, play nice…" I admonish half-heartedly as I sip the steaming liquid. My attention is diverted somewhat by Bao-Dur, who's seated beside me. He's become unusually quiet, even for him. Under the pretense of offering a serviette, I look him over. His expression is drawn, and his skin has taken on an unhealthy sheen. He catches my look of concern and smiles tightly, accepting the serviette before turning his attention back to his bowl. He takes a spoonful into his mouth, and swallows resolutely, looking almost… confused. The field medic in me starts running diagnostics, but comes up blank. We've been on the ship for days, so he isn't injured. If there was something in the water we'd all have it… So what is it? I study his face, his horns and tattoos contrasting starkly with his newly pallid skin. _His horns..his tattoos..._

Then a rather pertinent fact dawns on me. Oh Force.

"Umm, Mical, what's in iriaz stew? Other than the iriaz, of course."

He's happy just to be talking to someone who isn't Atton, so he misses the nervous wavering in my voice.

"Not much at all, really. Certain minerals mined on the surface of Dantooine, but – "

"So the alteration was the iriaz?" Mical's confused by the urgency of my question, but continues nonplussed. Atton, who's already finished his stew with uncommon enthusiasm, folds his arms on the table and leans forward with the air of a spectator.

"Yes, or rather, a lack thereof. You see, the recent growth in the kinrath and kath hound populations have made iriaz scarcer than they've been historically. There's been a moratorium placed on hunting them, and seeing as I'm not given over to …legally questionable practices…" He pauses to look at Atton, who's beaming now despite the obvious jab, "… and since it mimics the taste of meat so well, I've substituted the iriaz with Alderaanian fleshroot." Suns damn it.

A spoon clatters to the table. My eyes snap in the direction of the sound and meet Bao-Dur's. For a split-second we stare at each other, our expressions frozen into identical masks of horror. An audible gurgling sounds throughout the room, and his hand shoots up to cover his mouth. He bolts from the table, leaving a string of muffled Zabraki curses in his wake.

There's a beat. Two. I fight the urge to kick Atton under the table. Easy enough at first, but significantly harder after he bursts into gales of table-shaking, fist-pounding laughter. Poor Mical just stares at Bao-Dur's empty spot, blinking repeatedly. I decide against physical assault, though nothing's keeping me from giving Atton a verbal lashing within an inch of his life.

"Sithspit! You knew! You knew the second you put that stew in your mouth!"

"Knew what?" asks Mical, more lost than he was a few seconds ago.

Atton swipes a tear from his cheek.

"Like hell I knew, sister! But come on, it's not like you could ask me to pass up dinner and a show!" My glare tells him otherwise. He starts howling again.

"You son of a schutta, Atton. I can't believe that just happened. I can't believe you just let that happen."

Mical's gaze flits nervously between the two of us.

"I…I don't understand…"

Atton manages to catch his breath long enough to speak.

"Think really hard, kid, about who was sitting right in front of you."

"B-Bao-Dur?" he splutters.

"Yeah. Bao-Dur. Bao-Dur the Iridonian Zabrak." There's no response from Mical. He shakes his head. "Clearly, you can't see the genius of my comedy." Then to me, "I'll leave you to explain things to Pretty Boy over here." He rises from his seat and whirls around in a sweeping bow.

"Thank you, oh kind and noble sir, for the most... entertaining bowl of stew I've had in a long time."

He stalks off toward the cockpit and adds before leaving, "I hope that was cordial enough for you, your majesty."

Still a little stunned, Mical turns to me. His cheeks have the slightest hint of pink and he's fidgeting anxiously, picking at the back of his gloves. He swallows, eyeing me nervously.

"I, ah… Well, I certainly would appreciate an explanation. A-assuming you have one to give, that is."

His tone is unnerved, almost fearful, which is more than a little confusing. Atton's behaviour was obnoxious, not threatening. And it's not as though he could expect retaliation from Bao-Dur…Then I realize that I'm staring daggers at the doorway, a fist clenched murderously around my spoon. Oh. I must look ludicrously angry. I feel a smile tug at the corner of my lips. They quiver. Now, I'm laughing just as hard as Atton ever was, face buried in my hands.

"Atton, you're such an idiot. An idiot with a sick sense of humour," I whisper, mostly to myself.

"Excuse me?" Poor Mical's still confused, though at least he isn't worried that I'll rip someone's head off anymore. I sigh and compose my features into something I hope looks reassuring.

"I'm sorry, Mical. Really. It's just… I mean, it is funny. Awful, but – funny. Look…" I pause, walking over to his side and resting my hand on his shoulder.

"Mical, Zabraks are – quite exclusively – carnivorous." His face falls, paling with horror as what I said hits home. He springs from his seat pacing back and forth, waving his hands and speaking frantically.

"Oh. Oh no. So when I substituted in the fleshroot it…he…Oh. This is terrible! What have I done?"

"Calm down, Mical! It was an accident; he'll be fine in a couple hours!" He doesn't hear me, and I have to forcibly take him by the shoulders and set him down in a chair before he looks any better. After a moment or two, he's calm enough to speak. He casts his mournful gaze my way.

"Clearly I wasn't even up to besting the synthesizer. How could I have overlooked something so... basic? I've made such a mess of things… what's more I don't think I'll be hearing the end of this any time soon." His head hangs dejectedly. In the silence that follows, we hear Atton's chuckling come from the cockpit. Mical sighs.

"Let him laugh." I mutter darkly, "He won't be at it for long."

"Why is that?"

I smile. "Because he's the one who gets to clean the 'fresher after Bao-Dur's done."


End file.
